Last Man Standing
by TinkerbellBleu
Summary: A writing prompt based off an image in my discord server. No editing or polishing, no beta, just a little fun thing.
1. Last Man Standing

The full moon shone down on the blocky cement building, silvering the jagged panes of broken glass jutting from the windows like half-rotted teeth. The air was thick—dense and heavy with the approaching storm—even the crickets knocking off early and heading home for the day.

Dim shadows pooling at their booted feet, five armed figures crossed the cracked asphalt, each clad in uniforms as dark as the night around them. The occasional scuff of sole across withered tufts of grass was all that broke the stillness as they each converged on the factory from a different direction, all intent on their mission.

To be the last man standing.

* * *

The slim, dark figure swept the barrel of her weapon in front of her, eyes moving as she checked every shadow and crevice before slipping in the door. Entry was no difficulty, the solid metal doors hanging dejectedly from broken, rusted hinges. The light seeping in through the broken windows and crumbling concrete was more than enough to see by, though it certainly didn't make anything any easier.

It didn't take long to clear the small entry she'd stepped into, the walls stark and cold, the hallway beyond stretching back into a darkness that she knew by now held the others. The ones stalking her. Stalking each other. There were no rules in this contest aside from one: Don't lose.

There weren't a lot of benefits to winning, but the consequences if she lost didn't bear thinking about. _I'd die. I'd just...die._ Well, that just wasn't going to happen. Not today. Taking a breath that caught and warmed under the black mask that covered her features, she slid noiselessly into the hallway, keeping her back to the wall and her finger on the trigger.

* * *

Freezing at the sound of a voice from nearby, she faded slowly back into the shadows puddled under the hulking rusted-out piece of whatever-in-the-hell-it-used-to-be. Big. That's what it was. And potentially dangerous. Didn't really need to know any more than that.

Leaning her head back against the cold metal, she slowed her breathing, glancing at the watch on her wrist that tracked her heart-rate. 78. A little high, Skye, slow it down. Easier thought than done, but if she let her adrenaline get the best of her, she'd find herself at the end of a gun.

As her pulse started to slow, the thudding in her ears subsided, instead focusing in on the faint whisper of two voices from the other side of the whateverinthehellitwas that she was hidden against. What a stupid risk. They knew the consequences as well as she did. Nothing for it, now. It was them or her and it wasn't going to be her.

Keeping low to the ground, she eased around the corner, leading her gun like she'd been taught. It wouldn't do to forget her training, now of all times. And there they were, crouched in a pool of light filtering in through the window behind her, their masks off and whispering fervently to each other. Plotting, no doubt, maybe trying to work together to last the night. Not going to happen. Only one person got to walk out of here in the morning and it wasn't going to be either of them.

Raising her weapon, she sighted carefully, taking a deep breath and slowly releasing it as her finger pulled the trigger. Once. Twice. As quick as that, she was fading back into the shadows. Two down. Two to go.

* * *

A dead end. Darkness. The almost inaudible sound of grass crunching beneath a bootheel. _Shit_. Her brain screamed a warning, the hair on the back of her neck prickling, warning her too late of the danger. Turning to face him, she felt the first impact hit her side. Then her chest. Her stomach. Just like that, it was over. No warning. No mercy.

Touching her chest, her gloved hand came away sticky and she sagged against the wall behind her as her attacker reached up to remove his mask, revealing dark hair and a charming smile. Sociopath. "I told you that you didn't stand a chance. Looks like I'm going to win after all."

"Not likely." The clipped feminine voice came from the darkened doorway looming behind him, the room beyond nothing but inky blackness. Blackness he hadn't cleared. Stupid. Rookie mistake. And look what it cost him?

The small, dark-haired woman pulled the trigger, too late to save Skyler. Not that she would have, anyway.


	2. Aftermath

"I wish you hadn't been wearing your mask, I would have loved to see the look on your face." Ward smiled down at her, wincing as he touched the paint drying in his hair from May's expertly placed headshot. That had to have stung, and not just Ward's pride. "I can't believe you took out Fitz and Simmons."

"Well, they weren't supposed to be working together, they made an easy target." Peeling off the dark long-sleeved shirt she'd worn under the paintball armor, Skye smiled. "And that's why you don't stop to talk in the middle of a gun fight."

"Oh, please. You talk more than anyone when you're in the middle of a fight," Simmons piped up from her spot on the couch, her thick British accent comforting and familiar. "You are quite the Chatty Cathy, Skye."

"It's true, you know." No surprise Fitz would agree. When it came to Simmons, he usually did. It was obvious to anybody with eyeballs—working or not—that the young man was smitten with her. "And bloody rude, shooting us in the back like that, too."

"Speaking of." May smiled, holding out her hand expectantly to the lot of them. With a groan, each of them dug deep into their wallets, ending with a decently respectable stack in May's palm. "And?"

"And extra practice for a month." Groaning, Skye hung her head, wincing at the thought of the bruises she knew she was going to have come this time tomorrow.

"Five am. Don't be late."


End file.
